Author: CMS

  • DEAR OBAMA

    by SYNARIA

    I love you. No, I hate you.
    I love you. No, I hate you.
    Well, answer these questions by the actions you’ll do.
    Then I’ll tell you if I really love you or hate you.
    OK, first question: What do you supposedly
    think about what to do with taxes?
    He gets up, writes a paper about lowering taxes,
    then go fax it.
    In my head I shout, “I love you no wait I hate you.”
    What are you gonna do to the middle class?
    Give them more money and make new jobs
    starting today.
    I hate you naw I love you. No I hate you or I love you.
    And last but not least,
    Are you President Obama, an illuminati?
    He looks at me crazy and said no,
    he said you’ll see.
    By that you said and the actions you do.
    I LOVE YOU.
    naw I HATE YOU.
    Man, I’m UNDECIDED.

  • WHAT DOES POETRY MEAN TO ME?

    by BRANDON B.

    Poetry is
    what helps me co-op with accepting
    who I am. Poetry makes me try!
    to be someone I don’t know, it makes
    me try to understand others and their life.
    Poetry to me is more than a form of writing,
    it’s a way for me to live.
    Yes! Live! it allows me to escape my
    hardships of life, bring me to an understanding
    of why my father doesn’t love me
    or why do people tend to retreat to their secret garden.
    But enough about my needs.
    Sometimes poetry I write isn’t for me,
    it’s for my sister that I love dearly,
    the girl that doesn’t know if she’ll decide to take her own life,
    to give her the clarity her unbiological brother loves her,
    or for the people who don’t know the flip side of a story,
    or for a child they will soon say is nothing but a statistic.
    Poetry…poetry…it’s poetry.
    It’s there you live it everyday. It is life,
    it is love, it is loyal to your heartfelt opinions.
    So what does poetry mean to me?
    That’s a rhetorical question that should be slapped
    from every person’s mouth who has to ask.
    What is poetry to me?
    It’s the parent who sneaks into your room at night
    to kiss you goodnight when all is balmy.
    What is poetry? The art of rhythmic composition, written or spoken,
    for exciting pleasure by beautiful imaginative thoughts…
    NOW that’s poetry and it goes hand in hand with
    the world’s beautiful people…you.

  • DRY MY HANDS

    by ZURI

    Maybe just a little later on
    They’d tell me
    Maybe if we
    Wait
    Things will get
    Better
    Things
    Will get better
    Yet my hands only seem to get wetter
    Maybe
    Just
    A little later on
    Well I’m telling you
    Don’t wait
    Trust
    You
    Later
    Is no better
    Open your mouth
    Speak our words
    Breathe your heart
    Take your air
    Maybe just a little later
    You tell me
    Stories
    Never told
    Truth never professed
    Yet you still feel the need to bury it in
    My chest
    Why do I have to carry
    Your broken smiles and
    Stolen cookie lies
    The ones we promised lookin’ into mama’s eyes
    I don’t have a choice
    I hold the burdens you choose to pack in
    So think twice
    Before you bite your tongue
    Before you sin
    Before you look in the mirror at me with our
    Biting bitter sweet
    Lying grin
    Can you not
    Wait
    For
    Things
    To
    Get
    Better?
    Dry my hands
    Instead of waiting
    Just
    A little
    Later
    Don’t tell me
    To wait
    I’ve been waiting

  • MnM (ME NOW MA)

    by DAIZJHA

    Ma…I was scared of bees, I was scared of bugs,
    I was scared of the belt.
    I wore pigtails & dressed like a doll.
    I loved butterflies & rainbows
    & anything pink–I always tell the truth.

    That was seven years ago.
    Now I’m sixteen.
    I’m not scared of bugs, maybe bees.
    I’m not scared of the belt.
    I wear bras now.
    I dream of boys & cars.
    I love black & I love spiders & snakes
    & leather.
    Ma, I’m not into the color pink.
    I’m interested in anime & gore.
    I’m into gymnastics & adrenaline.
    I lie when I’m scared,
    make faces when I’m happy, & when I’m mad
    I get serious needed & crazy all the time.
    I’m still scared of you I don’t know how to
    please you & get you to laugh or smile.

  • A WHILE

    by WENDY

    The sun was bright. I was home. It was a typical day until I saw that bag filled with your clothes. I was confused. I didn’t know what to think or what to say. Until those words came out my mouth.  Then you responded, “I’m leaving for awhile, but please smile.” I felt my heart fall to my stomach. I had a feeling that a while was more than a mile. So a while past, and a while was seven years.

    You acted like nothing had happened, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry that I couldn’t call you Daddy like you would’ve wanted, but it wouldn’t of came from the bottom of my heart, so instead I called you by your name. Once again you left, but the difference is it didn’t hurt this time.